One More Night
by woodbyne
Summary: 2p Caname. The way Matthew's emotionless expression crumbled was subtle in a way that would make it difficult to spot if it hadn't been seen time and time again. The corners of his eyes would crease and his tongue would just touch his upper lip as he drew a deep breath. It never seemed to be just a kiss that Alfred wanted, and it was never just a kiss that Matthew would give.


Matthew's back hit the wall hard. His shoulder blades slammed against the rough plaster, scraping against his shirt and smacking into the ridges of his spine. Alfred was at his front, forearm jammed up under his jaw, making him grunt and struggle for breath. The American's red eyes flashed with the thrill of victory, the Canadian's favourite easy smirk pulling lopsidedly at his bloody lip.

Grunting savagely, the English language long since having abandoned the pair of them, Matthew brought his knee up hard. It only hit the other's thigh, but it did so with enough force to make it go numb, and Alfred's grip loosened slightly. That was all the Canadian needed to push off from the wall and hurl his other half to the floor like a side of meat. The air woofed out of Alfred lungs in a masochistic chuckle. The laugh morphed into a groan, part enjoyment part pain as Matthew's fist sank into his gut.

"Kiss me," Alfred wheezed, still grinning like a demon, his mirthful face a stark contrast to the cold rage on the blond's. Instead of the soft, coppery touch of Matthew's split lip, he feels his jaw pop as another blow lands.

Rotating his injured maxilla, the dark-haired man laughed again, rolling his shoulders and bucking under the weight that kept him still. "Yeah, didn't think so," The American groaned, still shifting, stretching and arching, spreading his legs and jerking his hips up to brush against the man above him.

"C'mon Matt," Alfred wheedled, the face above him remaining impressively impassive, "Just one l'il kiss?" That bloody lip gets bitten as they form that favourite, gap-toothed smirk, and red eyes look coyly up from under inky lashes, "You're the only one who knows how to do it _just_ right. Please?"

The way Matthew's emotionless expression crumbles is subtle in a way that would make it difficult to spot if it hadn't been seen time and time again. The corners of his eyes would crease and his tongue would just touch his upper lip as he drew a deep breath. It never seemed to be just a kiss that Alfred wanted, and it was never just a kiss that Matthew would give.

It was almost inevitable, really. Like the change of the seasons or the pull of the moon. Like the shift and collide of tectonic plates, they met. Somewhere between the two of them they had found a midpoint that amounted to something akin to peace. And yet it was the furthest thing from it. Neither was a pacifist – not by any definition or synonym – but when Matthew pushed Alfred's legs up and apart and Alfred just laughed breathlessly and they both gasped for sharp huffs of air with every thrust then they're so in so close that there's no use lashing out. Their under each other's guard. Too close, but perfectly comfortable.

When morning light painted the marks they left with colour and highlighted the old scars that they knew so well, Matt would excuse himself. Well, perhaps he would wander the house for a half hour muttering things like, 'Couldn't have just said fucking please to begin with?' And 'where are my Goddamn pants?' But after that he would return to whatever surface they had draped themselves over and watch Alfred stretch and flex like a cat. He knew by now the American needed to feel his tendons pulled taught and his sore muscles stretch in that pleasurably painful way sore muscles have of stretching.

Once the feline yoga was done to Alfred's satisfaction, he would collapse like a severed marionette, moaning a garbled, "Thanks, Matt. That was _perf_." Or some variation on a theme thereof. And Matt stroked a path down over espresso dark hair and mocha-brown shoulders, feeling the sharp spikes of his shoulder blades and the lines of his ribs.

"Alfred," the Canadian began, once more impassive. He didn't much care, or so he tried to convince himself. He could never quite figure himself out around the other.

"Yeah, I know," the American is more awake this time, "'This is the last time,' I know," Alfred's hand wanders out to grab at Matthew's open shirt and drag deliciously across his bare stomach, "I'll see you soon, Matt. You can let yourself out."

Every time, the words are almost exactly the same. They might as well be saying, 'I love you. I'll miss you,' it's the same intonation after all. Matthew felt the marks his lover left on him as he left, contemplating the eternal puzzle of their togetherness and coming up with nothing, just like every other time he tried.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to figure out who was weaker; Alfred for asking, or Matthew for giving.


End file.
